


Shot

by protectoroffaeries



Series: Kids on the Hill [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blood, Gun Violence, High School AU, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Modern AU, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 03:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9529658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protectoroffaeries/pseuds/protectoroffaeries
Summary: John gets shot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> haven't written anything in awhile, have writer's block
> 
> leave me a comment telling me how many times I dropped the f-bomb & I'll write you a fic-let

Blood.

There is blood everywhere, goddammit. It's seeping into the crisp, white shirt John wore for his father's ridiculous party, in tight blotches of crimson. It’s dripping down onto his dark grey slacks, leaving darker wet patches on them. It's slick and warm and sticky against his skin. 

John is hazy on whether or not he put his hands to the wound before or after he ended up on his knees, but he's going to assume it was after, if the pain that keeps lacing it's way up and down his body every time he moves so much as an inch. Painful to even put his hands on it, truth to be told, but there is too much blood,  _ too much _ , and John has to stop it. He could die if he doesn't. He's only seventeen, he's too young,  _ too young to die _ ,  _ dammit _ . He was stupid and reckless tonight, and  _ fuck  _ if he is paying for it.

John presses the heel of his palm into the bullet wound and an inhuman scream splits the air. It takes him a moment to realize that the scream comes from him, that he's the one who's in so much agony, and all his mind can supply him at that is  _ of course it's you. _ The pain itself is starting to feel unreal. At first, it was sharp and bright, forcibly demanding both his attention and his fear. But now it feels more like an ache, like it's dulling somehow, or he's adjusting, or he's fucking dying. He presses his hand in harder, and the sharpness returns with a burst of clarity, just for a second.

John hears voices. 

“The  _ fuck,  _ Lee, that's Henry fucking Laurens’ son you just shot!” shouts someone who's trying and failing to hide their fear with anger. John laughs at the mention of his father - or tries to. If this bullet doesn't kill him, his father will, and it'll probably hurt more to go that way. 

“I know who the fuck he is!” Lee snaps back. John hates Charles Lee, the guy’s a grade A asshole, but holy fuck, that was hardly a reason to believe Lee would shoot him. Everyone thought he was an asshole - and it’s Alex's dad he talks the most shit about, so really, if anyone should be lying in some fucking alley not ten blocks from the Capitol Building with a bullet in their side, it's Alex, not him. But the thought of Alex getting hurt sets off a feeling inside him so jarring that it distracts him from his physical troubles for a beat.

John must’ve missed the rest of the conversation between Lee and his crony, but he isn't blind, and he sees them toss the gun somewhere off to his left and run.  _ Bastards _ . If he survives this, he's sending both of their asses to jail. 

His vision is only slightly blurry when he fumbles his phone from his pocket. It slips out of his fingers and lands just beyond his reach, so John pushes himself forward in something like a half crawl, his right hand still pressed over the wound. Tears spring to his eyes at the new wave of agony that accompanies movement, at the grating press of asphalt into his skin, and he realizes that there are drying tear tracks already on his face. John wonders when he was crying before. Could've been at any time. He's never been so fucking out of it that he didn't notice tears leaking from his eyes. Some whisper in the back of his mind tells him that's a  _ bad fucking sign _ .

John grabs his phone and types in the pass code. There's some blood on his left hand, too, just a little. It's not seeping between his fingers, coating his palm, and staining his skin like his right hand, but it's enough to leave reddish fingerprints behind on his iPhone screen. He thumbs the home button and croaks, “Siri, call Laf,” and for once in her existence, Siri actually fucking  _ listens _ . 

“Calling Laf,” Siri chirps in her creepy, robotic way. The phone rings and rings and rings, and then John gets Lafayette’s voicemail, so John leaves him a nice message in his native language, a string of nasty swears, the only French he knows. Then he hangs up and tells Siri to call Herc, and when Herc doesn't pick up, Angelica, and when Angelica doesn't pick up, Eliza, and when Eliza doesn't pick up, Peggy, and when Peggy doesn't  _ fucking _ pick up her phone, John starts to think that he may actually die in this alley. 

John has a few options left, though, and while he likes none of them as much as he likes Lafayette dragging him to some random hospital in Baltimore where he could remain mostly anonymous, he also really doesn't want to die. 

Option one is to call 911, which is a good way to get this on the news first thing tomorrow morning. His father's going to be pissed enough about this, no need to add to it. He could call his father himself (if he wants to die quickly) or his siblings, but they're at one of fancy senator events, where he is  _ should  _ be, and if they're smarter than their brother, they know not to touch their phones during such an event.

That leaves John with the lesser of three evils: Alex. Alex is John's best friend, and John has some… positive feelings about Alex that he's determined not to look very closely at. But Alex is a fucking moron,  _ fucking selling himself for money he doesn't even need _ , and John is pissed at him, has been pissed at him for like a week now since he found out, and that makes him not want to call Alex for help. 

Seems like a petty thing to die over, though.

John glances at his bloody flank and sighs. He tells Siri to call Alex and dimly registers that Alex answers on the first ring.

_ “John? I thought you weren't talking to me,”  _ Alex says, voice crackling over the iPhone’s speaker phone. 

“Alex, shut up and listen,” grumbles John. He's not interested in fighting with Alex. He's fighting a different battle at the moment. He needs Alex’s help, for God’s sake. “Lee shot me.”

_ “I'm sorry?” _

“Charles  _ fucking  _ Lee shot me in the side!” shouts John. He shifts his weight and grunts at the new wave of pain rushes over him. Still doesn't hurt as much as it probably should, but at least he  _ can  _ feel it. When things start to go numb, that's a bad sign. Worse sign than getting shot, he'd wager. 

_ “What the fuck? John, where the hell are you, I'm coming, did you call the police?” _

“‘M in some alley near the Hill. Don't call the police,  _ fuck _ , my dad’ll kill us both. I’ll have him deal with it privately, just come, come take me up to Baltimore.”

_ “You dumbfuck,”  _ Alex says, and John can hear rustling on the other end, a  _ whoosh _ of air, and the Washington's garage door opening. John feels vaguely guilty about all the blood he's going to get on Martha Washington’s station wagon.  _ “Baltimore is an hour away, you're in the middle of a perfectly good city with perfectly good hospitals. Your dad can fucking fight me if he's got a problem.” _

The mental image of Alex, small, ferocious Alex, trying to fight John's father is so absurd that John starts laughing and can't stop. Distantly, he can hear Alex saying something else, but as his laughter finally fades, his consciousness seems to go with it. His vision blurs and his breathing speeds up, he's going to faint, he has no energy left, he just wants to go to sleep.

  
The last thing John thinks is that he should stay awake until Alex shows up, and then he's out like a light. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this spiralled out of my control and now I'm not sure how long it's going to be
> 
> I blame all the lovely comments I got on the first chapter. (Thank you!!)

Alex finds John sprawled out in an alleyway on the edgier side of DC. If he'd decided to have his gunfight with Charles Lee a few blocks east, some tourists probably would've stumbled on him before he could call anyone. Alex thinks that's exactly why they weren't any closer to the glitz and glamor of the capitol’s main street. Can't have ordinary citizens thinking their dearly elected officials have children that are anything less than perfect. Alex is frequently amused by the notion; politicians’ kids are the best criminals he knows. Most of them are better than their parents.

But there's nothing good about the trouble Senator Henry Laurens’ son has gotten himself into tonight. John is a bloody mess - and Alex means that both literally and Britishly. He's just lying there in a small pool of his own blood. It's splattered and smeared across his clothes, his face, his phone, and it looks black in the low light, like the darkness is trying to swallow John, and John put up a fight before submitting to its superior strength.

At first, Alex fears John is dead. He looks dead, sounds dead, there's a lot of blood. And when Alex says he  _ fears _ John's dead, he means that fear itself grasps his heart and constricts it, and the tight, heavy, unavoidable feeling pounds in his ears, vibrates down to his toes, swims in his vision as he leans over and presses his fingers to the pulse point on John's neck. It takes him a few heartbeats to feel John's because he has to rein in that fear before he can accurately take note of how John is. John’s pulse is actually quite strong, Alex thinks, given the circumstances.

Alex inspects John more closely by the light of his flashlight app; he can see now the spot where John was shot: on his left flank, a few inches above his hip. It's completely saturated in blood, so much so that Alex can't tell if it’s still bleeding or not. He takes hold of John's white (now red) button-down and unbuttons it, pushes it out of the way, and sighs dramatically when he realizes that didn't help at all. He still can't tell if John's bleeding or not. There's blood in various stages of dryness smeared all over his skin, and he's not sure how long John has even been lying here.

Alex shoves his phone into his pocket, which makes it difficult to see, and then he tucks his hands under John's armpits and drags him to the end of the alleyway. It's hard work - John is heavy, and Alex isn't exactly known for his physical prowess. He stops to take a breath (or twenty, he's really out of shape, sue him), and then he yanks open the back of the station wagon and lifts with his legs and  _ fuck,  _ John is really heavy. Alex manages to get him in anyway, but he rolls a little, and Alex thinks he mumbles something, which is a good sign, he hopes.

Alex doesn't have a safe way to strap John into the back of the station wagon, and he doesn't have the time to come up with one, so he resolves to drive carefully. It's a pretty shitty solution, but the whole situation is shitty.

Alex shuts the back and goes around to the front seat, fights with the numerous keys and keychains Martha keeps on her keyring, and eventually gets the damn car to start. The nearest hospital is St. Mary’s; Alex drove by it on his way over.

As he drives, the adrenaline and whatever else helped clear his head enough to get John into the station wagon without breaking down starts to fade. The fear comes back, hits him like a slap in the face, consumes him. His hands start to shake, so Alex grips the steering wheel tighter and tighter until his knuckles are ghostly pale.

_ Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.  _ “Fucking  _ fuck _ ,” Alex shouts because what the  _ hell _ was John thinking, getting into another fight with Charles Lee without any help? Alex knows that John's mad at  _ him _ , but that doesn't mean he couldn't have called Lafayette or Hercules or Angelica to back him up. And now he could  _ fucking die _ because he was too stupid and arrogant - and Christ, if he survives this, Alex will kill John himself. 

Tears prick in Alex’s eyes, and he doesn't try and stop them from falling. They flow down his face in streams and blur his vision a little. He holds back on the heavy sobbing even though he feels like it would offer some relief. Driving and sobbing is a good way to get both of them killed.

Alex pulls up to the hospital and drives into the ambulance lane even though it's a dick move, and he'll probably get fined for it. He doesn't have time to fucking park and get someone or figure out where the hell the entrance to the ER is. The ambulance lane is easy; it's lit up brighter than the Washingtons’ living room on Christmas. Easy is all Alex can handle right now.

Of course, the problem with this method is that he has to get out of the car and go pound on the fucking door because medical personnel only wait outside if they know someone's coming. An irate attendant - Alex doesn't know if the woman’s a doctor or a nurse or some other staff member - comes and tells him to go way, go around,  _ leave. _

“My friend was shot,” Alex tells her, “he's bleeding to  _ death _ in the back of my fucking car. I'll pay whatever fucking fine you wanna give me, just fix him.”

The woman hesitates for a fraction of a second, but then she motions to one of her colleagues to bring and stretcher and follows Alex over to the back of the station wagon. He pops the back, and to her credit, the doctor/nurse/whatever doesn't flinch. Alex supposes this is just another day on the job to her. That's not  _ her _ best friend, limp and bloody. One sob tries to escape him; Alex cuts it into a little whimper.

“How long ago did this happen?” the woman asks.

“I don't know, I wasn't there,” Alex admits. He thinks she's going to ask why they didn't call 911 and have an actual ambulance bring him here, but she doesn't.

All she says is, “As soon as we get him out of here, get this car out of the way and come around to the ER.”

She and her colleague pulled John out of the car much more carefully than Alex dragged him down the alley. John looks terrible - worse than before, but maybe it's just the shit lighting coming off the hospital that makes it  _ seem _ worse. They cart him away before Alex can register much of anything else about him. He takes a steeling breath and drives the station wagon over to the parking lot.

He parks, pays for an overpriced parking pass, gets lost trying to find the ER, and finally collapses into a stiff chair that smells vaguely like sweat in the waiting room that branches off the ER. Utterly exhausted, he ignores bustle of hospital around him and pulls out his phone, but he can’t decide what to do from here. Should he call someone? Talk to a doctor?

Alex glances around; there aren't any doctors/nurses/whatevers around, just a petite, blonde woman sitting across the room, staring at him in poorly concealed horror. He can't say he blames her. His clothes are covered in John's blood - he looks like he just stepped out of a slaughterhouse.

Alex looks down at his phone again. His first instinct is to call George or Martha. His foster parents have always treated him like he's their own, and they've always told him that he can come to them for help with anything. He believes that, to a certain extent, but George and Martha are also sticklers for the rules, and they'd both want to call John's parents immediately. Alex got the impression that isn't what John wants, so he doesn't call either of them. Not yet. George is probably busy anyway; the President of the United States can't drop everything because his foster son's best friend got shot.

He could - and probably should - call Herc and Laf. They're both more sensible than Alex is most of the time, and at the very least, they'd show up and wait for news with him. Herc might want to call John's parents, too, but it'd be possible to talk him out of it.

Yet the person he ultimately calls first is Angelica. Alex’s justification for this choice is that John and Angelica  _ are _ good friends; they've actually known each other longer than Alex has known either of them. Apparently, John used to take Angelica to formal events before she started dating John Church (and so now John takes Martha Manning).

_ “Hamilton, someone better be dying,”  _ Angelica answers right before the phone rings out, sounding annoyed.

“Someone  _ is _ dying,” Alex snaps defensively, but the words catch in his throat, and it comes out sounding shaky. “Lee shot Laurens.”

Angelica's tone changes completely.  _ “How bad is it?” _ she asks, and now she sounds controlled. Collected. Like she's bracing for bad news.

Alex wants to tell her the truth: he doesn't know. But what comes out is a hushed, “It's bad, Ange,” and he wouldn't call that a lie. It looked bad. It feels bad. It  _ is _ bad.

He can hear her talking to someone on her end, probably Eliza, and then she asks him,  _ “Where are you?” _

“St. Mary’s.”

_ “We'll be there in fifteen minutes - ‘Liza and Pegs are coming, too - Alex, are  _ you  _ alright?”  _ Angelica says all this in a disconnected rush, and it makes Alex's head spin a little.

“I'm fine. I wasn't there. I'm fine,” he says, which is a total lie, he's not fine, he won't be fine until he knows John is fine. And if John isn't fine… then Alex’ll never be fucking fine again.

_ “We're coming,”  _ Angelica reiterates firmly, and then she hangs up.

Alex drops the phone onto his lap and buries his face in his hands.

  
_ Fuck. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the third and final part
> 
> might wanna check out what Peggy saw before reading this
> 
> comments are loved

John's head is fucked. He's dizzy, the light is too bright, there's pounding in his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut as soon as he tries to open them. He feels like he has a hangover, except he would've had to do like ten shots of tequila to put himself in this position, and Alex always cuts him off at five. Unless Alex is wasted, too; then Angelica or Eliza does it. The point is, John drinks with responsible people. Or wait. No. The point is that he feels like someone is stabbing him in the head with an ice pick.

Then he moves, just shifts a little, and the pain in his head suddenly be comes inconsequential next to the  _ burning _ in his side, and a scream tries to escape him, but it comes out as a hoarse whimper.  _ Fucking hell. _ What the  _ fuck  _ did he do to himself? He can't remember, can barely think at all through the hazy pain. He just wants it to stop.

John thinks he hears a woman's voice - his mother's. Telling him it'll be okay. Telling him to  _ rest now, mi hijo.  _ Telling him that she'll be there in when he wakes up.

_ “Mamá,” _ John croaks, and someone - his mother - pets his hair. It doesn't really help with the  _ hurt,  _ but it's a little distracting. He focuses on that until he drifts back to sleep.

The next time John wakes up, he can keep his eyes open for more than a split second. The throbbing in his head has dulled to almost nothing, but the rest of his body aches at the slightest movement. He looks around the room; the walls are gray, there's a big, blue chair in one corner with a tiny window next to it, but most of the space is taken up by the giant hospital bed he's lying in. There's a chart hanging off the side of the bed, and John would grab it if he could stand to move. Not that he'd understand any of the medical speak in it, but it'd give him something to do.

What is within his reach is a little red call button, which will probably bring a nurse to check on him if he needs something. He's good right now, though. Well. As good as one can be after getting  _ fucking _ shot.

John can't tell how much time has passed because it's dark outside his tiny window, and it was dark when he got shot. He remembers calling Alex - and Alex must've come and got him, because here he is, alive enough. He needs to talk to Alex. He needs to apologize to Alex. Fuck, he can't recover from this without Alex.

He also remembers something about his mother, which can't be anything more than a dream. He hasn't seen her in seven years now; John doesn't see his father calling her for anything short of a direct order from God. He misses her, though. Maybe he should call her himself; he'll certainly have time to while he's recovering from this.

_ This. _ Charles  _ fucking _ Lee. That son of a bitch is not going to get away with this bullshit. What kind of crazy motherfucker brings a gun to a fistfight, anyway? Fucking coward.

“You're awake.” A woman's voice snaps him out of his thoughts. Not his mother’s. A doctor. She's standing in the doorway, looking all professional and doctorly with her clipboard and her white coat, which is how he knows she's a doctor. Her black hair is up in a bun, and she's probably about Alex’s height. She doesn't look very happy for some reason, but maybe she just has resting bitchface.

“Uh, yeah.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to feel like that for awhile. What's your name, kid?” she asks as comes into the room and picks up his chart.

“John.” She gives him a pointed look over the top of the chart. “Uh. John Laurens?”

“Son of Senator Henry Laurens?” the doctor guesses. John hesitates, but ultimately nods. She's a doctor. He can't lie to a doctor. There's a rule about that somewhere or something. The real question is why can a doctor just name senators off the top of her head? Doesn't she have better things to be doing? Doctor things?

“Do you feel safe at home?” she asks him.

“Why wouldn't I?” asks John. It dawns on her that she probably knows about his father because of vocal opinions on healthcare - or maybe a social issue. Fun. John doesn't share a lot of those opinions with his father.

“Your father supported that anti-LGBT+ bill that recently made its way to the Senate floor, and with quite some passion, if I remember correctly,” the doctor says with a curl of her lip. She almost spits the word passion.

“He did, but I'm not out to him,” John says, and then he pauses. He's not out to this random doctor, either. How the fuck did she know that he's gay? Did he say something while he was out? He doesn't think  _ she’ll  _ tell his father, based on the comments she just made, but what if another doctor heard him?  _ Fuck.  _ Could this situation get any shittier?

“How did you know I'm gay?”

The doctor puts his chart down and says, “Your boyfriend brought you in. Pretty persistent guy you've got there; he went through the ambulance lane. My supervisor chewed me out for taking you in that way, but to be honest, you might not have made it if we'd waited any longer to get you on the table.”

“My  _ what?” _ John doesn't remember everything that happened the last time he was awake, but he's sure he didn't acquire a boyfriend while he was getting his ass shot and bleeding all over the place.

“Black hair, brown eyes, short, loud, multilingual, you know him? He brought you in; I thought he said he was your boyfriend,” the doctor says, and now she looks concerned.

“That's Alex,” John confirms before she goes and calls the police on his best friend. “We're friends, but he's not my boyfriend.”

The doctor raises her eyebrows. “I must've misheard him. In any case, he is worried about you, so I'm going to go and tell him and your other friends that you're awake. If you're feeling up to it, I could send a couple of them into visit.”

“Yeah, that'd be nice, thank you,” John looks closely at the name tag pinned onto her coat, “Doctor Faucette.”

“You're welcome, John.” And with that, she's gone, leaving him in his boring room with his soreness and limited range of motion. He stares down at the IV in his arm for a minute, wondering what kind of drugs they're giving him, and then he examines the hospital gown they put him in and wonders what they did with his other clothes. Probably trashed them. They were covered in blood, and the shirt has a bullet hole in it. Actually, that might be cool to keep. He hopes they didn't throw it out. Oh. And it's evidence. Right? So they probably do have it somewhere.

“Jacky, holy fuck!” Marth shrieks from the doorway, and John's never been so happy to see his dumb little sister. She runs over to his bed and wraps him in a hug that kind of fucking hurts, but he's so happy to see her that he doesn't say anything.

“I was so worried about you, dumbfuck,” she says when she finally pulls away. “Alex has so much blood on him, he looks like he just stepped out of  _ Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” _

John laughs, but only a little because laughing makes his chest ache. That's puzzling; wasn't he shot lower than that? “Have you ever even seen  _ Texas Chainsaw Massacre?” _

“No, but it's gory, right? You get what I mean.”

Marth looks like she just came from their father’s ball. Her curly hair’s straighten and pulled up into some fancy style that John doesn't know that name of, but it sits atop her head in a pretty way, he supposes. She's wearing a black dress that goes just past her knees and sparkly makeup (which John thinks looks a little smeared and splotchy). In short, she looks out of place in the sterile, bleek hospital room.

“How'd you get out of Dad’s thing?” he asks, and he hopes the answer isn't  _ I told Dad you got shot, and now he's in the waiting room.  _ Although, he's going to have to tell his father about this eventually. He can't afford this hospital bill.

“I snuck out the back; HJ's covering for both of us right now. If Dad asks, he'll make up some extravagant lie.”

“Yeah, he's good at that.”

“What the fuck happened, Jack?” she asks, her tone serious. “Alex said that Charles fucking Lee  _ shot _ you.”

“That's what happened.”

“Why the fuck were you anywhere near Charles Lee?”

That's a good question. That's something a lot of people are going to ask him. John can't tell any of those people the truth. Not unless he's really vague. “He pissed me off, I told him to name a time and place. It was supposed to be few punches, Marth. I didn't think he'd be dumb enough to try and kill me.”

Marth doesn't look like she believes him, but thankfully, she lets it go for now. “Well, uh, the doc said we can't bother you for too long, and I know Alex wants to talk to you, so I'll go now. Don't scare me like that again, okay?”

“I'll try not to.”

“I'm serious, Jack,” she says, as if he couldn't tell by her tone.

“I know. Don't worry. I don't think I'll be moving from this spot anytime soon. And Marth?”

“Hmm?” Marth’s already in the doorway.

“Do you know Mamá's phone number?”

She pauses. They haven't talked about their mother in at least three years. But Marth doesn't question him about his sudden interest, either. She just says, “I'll see if I can find it. Rest up, Jacky. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

John can hear the  _ click click click _ of Marth’s heels as she walks down the hall, and he listens to them until they fade away. Not a minute later, Alex appears in John's room, winded and, as Marth described, covered in dried blood. He looks more tired than usual, which is saying something, because Alex is always fucking exhausted. The bags under his eyes are starting to get their own bags, and his hair is not only escaping his hair tie, it's frizzing all around his head like he stuck his finger in a socket.

_ “John,” _ he pants, “you dumbass motherfucker.”

“That's me. I hear we're dating now.” Fuck, why did he lead with that?

“What?”

“My doctor thought you were my boyfriend,” John explains. For some reason, he blushes as he says it. That's dumb. Beyond friendly feelings for Alex are fucking dumb.

“Why would she think that?” Alex asks, looking bewildered. Of course. Because the two of them dating would be ridiculous. Why is John even thinking about this? He just got shot, Alex is a literal  _ whore _ apparently, neither of them are in a situation to have a relationship right now.

“I don't know,” he mutters. “Alex, there's something I need to talk to you about.”

“Hold on a second. Me first.”

“Uh, okay?”

“You  _ dumb, stupid, idiotic son of a bitch,  _ why the  _ fuck _ would you fight Charles Lee in some  _ shitty  _ alley all by your fucking self? Why the  _ fuck _ didn't you call 911, who gives a flying  _ fuck _ about the press, you could've died! You scared the  _ fuck _ out of me; God, you looked dead when I found you! Do you hear me, John? I thought you were  _ fucking dead _ !” Alex is shouting by the time he gets to the end of his rant, and there are tears pouring down his face. John's never seen Alex so upset, and they've had their fair share of fights. John feels extremely guilty. He never meant to scare Alex like that. He didn't mean to almost die.

John takes a deep breath. “I'm sorry, Alex.” Alex opens his mouth to say something else, but John doesn't give him the opportunity. “I shouldn't have gone after Lee. I shouldn't have made you come get me. And… I shouldn't have yelled at you about your… hobby last week, although I do think we should talk about it because I still don't think it's a good idea.”

Alex is silent for a few moments, which is a rare occurrence. “You were an asshole last week.”

“Yeah.”

“You threw money at me like I was the cock-sucking equivalent of a shitty vending machine.”

“I know.”

“I'm a top of the line cock-sucker,” Alex mumbles. “And I've been doing it for months. I'm fine. I make them wear condoms. I went to a clinic last week; no STIs. I'm not being stupid about this, John. There's no need for you to worry. Or be an ass.”

John still feels like this is a bad idea, and he really doesn't like it  _ at all,  _ but he can't control what Alex does with his life. Alex is his best friend,  _ and  _ he saved John's life tonight. John can't lose him over this or anything else. He needs Alex.

“If anyone gives you trouble-”

“-I'll tell the press that they're soliciting oral sex from underage boys. All my clients are big shot politicians, John; half of them are publicly homophobic,” Alex cuts in. He gives John a look that tells him he'd better not go after any of Alex's  _ clients.  _ John can’t, even though he wants to. He doesn't know who they are, and he's still confined to a hospital bed until further notice.

“Now, enough of that talk,” Alex continues, “what are we going to do about Lee? ‘Cause I’ve been talking to everyone - the Schuyler sisters, Herc, Laf, your sister- and we’ve come up with some pretty good ideas.”

  
John smiles. Things are rough right now, but they're going to be okay. He's certain of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok "cock-sucking equivalent of a shitty vending machine" is one of my fav lines I've ever written tbh


End file.
